plastic paper dolls
by sweetwatersong
Summary: 'Natasha Romanoff is not a robot.' NR1074, android model B Widow, is.


**plastic paper dolls**  
rating: pg  
characters: Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Thor  
warnings: brief violence  
author's note: Inspired by finding out there was a tag on AO3 titled 'Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot.'

summary: 'Natasha Romanoff is not a robot.' NR1074, android model B_Widow, is.

_plastic paper dolls_

When all is said and done, androids die as easily as humans. The bullet pierces a critical circuit, blunt force damage disrupts redundant nerve link-ups, a bleed spills too much oil and synth-plasma until motor functions cease operation.

It's easy to kill an android, and it's why, Natasha thinks as she blocks another strike, these men are taking their time about it.

They remove her left arm with a brutal two-strike attack, ripping away the external memory that runs through her man-made bones, taking the moments she had once considered unworthy of her precious cerebral storage. She feels the loss with more than her sensors, grieves in that heartbeat for what she knows she is losing even as her memory banks realign to gloss over the missing data. In the butterfly beat before zeros and ones link across the gap, Natasha mourns for the summer afternoons, the Sunday breakfasts and burned pancakes, for the way the light hit the lake as Steve cannon-balled off the dock and Bruce laughed in the ensuing waves, for -

She blinks, becoming aware of the major damage to her casing, and brings her right arm up to prevent a blow to her primary systems. Her auditory system has detected the hum of a Quinjet; all that is necessary now is to stall until her teammates can arrive. They will come, as she has known they would, as she has counted on, because she trus-

A knife severs the link between her right ulna and humerus, and another portion of her recollections goes dark.

o

Her back-up arrives, dispatching the attackers with ruthless speed and typical precision. Romanoff finds surprise in Captain America's gaze when she meets his obvious concern with the appropriate, cooler response.

"Natasha," the super soldier asks almost hesitantly (age: 27 years, abilities: detailed list available at ssr43_brny), "do you remember us?"

The shattered pieces of miscellaneous memory litter the ground they are standing on, crunch under tac-boots and heavy treads.

"Of course, Captain," she assures him smoothly. "All relevant mission files are protected and kept in my internal storage. They have not taken any damage." Every notable data point is accounted for, she is certain of it, and yet she finds none to explain his odd query.

He studies her, a frown in the corners of his mouth, and Romanoff files it all in her report log while broken plastic glitters on the gravel around her.

o

Cool water washes over her synth-perfect meta-skin, the replacement arms moving easily as she begins her upkeep routine. After eighteen months of missions Romanoff is not surprised that the Tower had new limbs fabricated and ready for repair before the Quinjet touched down. Having access to her diagrams for the process must have been one of Stark's dreams come true.

She notes distantly that the idea should make her uneasy, but a quick file search cannot reveal any reason why she doesn't view the event as unfortunate. Nor can it explain the hovering worry of Doctor Banner (incident files GR2_beta), or Stark's own peculiar unease (S.H.I.E.L.D. Warning 123.6b). Neither had remarked on the data banks molded into her new arms, a storage system that was not S.H.I.E.L.D. standard issue, and included no indications of its purpose. Perhaps she did indeed suffer minor trauma to her memory banks.

Brow creased, Romanoff switches her meta-skin to maintenance mode - and pauses in her self-inspection.

There, just above where the heart would be on a human female, is a small compartment absent from her schematics. In stark contrast to the block print of notations and numbers at every other hatch, the only notation it bears is a hand-drawn star.

She brushes her fingers over the small section cautiously. It opens outwards to reveal an unauthorized port, one clearly designed to fit a specific data-jack. No explanations on the hatch door, no answers available from her internal diagnostics, no apparent reason for the post-manufacturing modification.

Water runs down her pseudo-human skin, sliding over translucent labels and outlines, and Romanoff wonders what she has forgotten.

o

Tucked into her closet is a portable mem-storage, its case nondescript and matte black. She keys in her circuit signature to unlock it, crouching on the bedroom floor with her towel still wrapped around her, and is somehow unsurprised when the holo-vid begins to play.

"You've forgotten," her image-self says, holding the same jack as she does now. "Now you can remember."

And the message fades out.

No explanation, no elaboration on the infuriating implications - what has she forgotten? How, given that all pertinent data is safely locked away in her head? - no answer but the calm regard of her past visage and the oddly heavy weight of the small mem-storage by her feet.

She opens the port, hesitates, and clicks the jack in.

o

Her footsteps coming down the Tower stairs are soft and silent, and Clint hears her anyway.

"Hey," he greets her, the hint of hope washing away under concern as he gauges her approach. The question is there if you know how to look for it: _who is coming? How much does she remember?_ "How are you doing?"

Natasha studies him in return, face blank when she stops in front of his perch on the well-worn couch. A human heartbeat passes as he waits for an automated answer, ever the patient hunter, ever her flesh and blood counterpart. She allows her lips curve slightly at that, even as she holds out her hand - and he takes it, lets her pull him up so he can hug her with undisguised relief. He doesn't need more than that to know she can remember the taste of hot dogs from an autumn campfire, the tang of salt air by the Pacific, the myriad quiet moments of a life outside of data points.

"Lady Natasha," Thor ventures from the kitchen when Clint steps back, "are you well?"

She smiles at the Asgardian's familiar and eternal hope, warm and fond and light with the memories she could not trust to S.H.I.E.L.D., to anyone who might rummage in her head. She is here, in this place, with these people, and the rightness of it settles in her bones.

"I can't remember when I've been better," she replies, and knows it to be true.

_end_


End file.
